


For You I Bleed Myself Dry

by themetaphornextdoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, M/M, Rimming, Rough Sex, Smut, Top!Castiel, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetaphornextdoor/pseuds/themetaphornextdoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Like chosen penance, an angel sank to his knees and wrote promises on imperfect human skin with his tongue."<br/>Dean/Cas, NC-17, Angst, PWP. 1,491 words</p>
            </blockquote>





	For You I Bleed Myself Dry

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Angst, Blood, Rimming, Rough Sex  
> Spoilers: None. Set somewhere during Season 5  
> Title from the song “Yellow” by Coldplay.

  
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_  


Castiel’s eyes were open at first, pools that threatened to spill over and consume Dean with all the force of a tsunami. His wide lips pressed tightly together, pale with the force of will keeping them closed.

Frowning, he was desperate not to look away, but had to screw his eyes shut in the struggle to stay quiet. His jaw clenched in frustration. Even intoxicated with lust, the angel was still reluctant to lose his hold on Dean’s gaze. He owned this small space, the location of each and every conversation they’d never had. Two years worth of words never uttered, that remained unsaid even now.

Despite his efforts, Castiel couldn’t help a moan, so deep and broken with gravel that it might have been a growl. Just a hint of the angel’s true voice came with it, a symphony of discordant tones and notes that bent the air around them like fabric rippling in a fierce wind.

It was never high or piercing like that first time. More like an icy gust of wind, rocks grinding and waves crashing. Completely entwined with the rise and fall of whispers and murmurs. Yet it was silent, paradoxically, more a feeling than a sound. He heard it somewhere other than his ears – every second of it was a complete contradiction that messed with Dean’s mind.  
It assaulted his eardrums with a heavy pressure he’d only ever felt driving on mountain roads, a dullness of sound and the urge to work his jaw until his ears popped.

This physicality, this _ **carnal**_ act - Dean had found a weapon that brought an angel to his knees. That the power in his hands was really only an illusion, he chose to ignore. Reality escaped him either way in moments like these.

Moments when a heavenly being, originally of utter purity of purpose, could be taken apart piece by piece with the very antithesis of its nature – the most basic, human, animalistic drive. Castiel had so often deigned to seek his purpose in the heat of Dean’s hand and the clench of his muscles. His actions focused towards the most selfish, and ultimately pointless, completion.

Where was God when an angel had spilled hot, sticky spurts over his fingers last week… Or against his stubbled cheeks, swiping it across his swollen lips last night… Or coating him deep inside like he would just minutes from now?

God must have been looking away because Castiel groaned again, so loud the hanging light fixture vibrated and swayed, and Dean felt his ears block with fresh blood. The angel was pushing thick and urgent inside him - the only man he’d happily sin for – and thrust so forcefully Dean’s body slid along the damp sheets, nudging the headboard. His body opened to let him in… slippery but still under-prepared muscles stretching around the invasion.

As if it had any choice under Castiel’s strength and will. Once begun, he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stop. The only choice Dean had was to let go and follow wherever Castiel led him. He followed with relish, more than willing to ride this particular wave. Even if they washed right back to Perdition.

Dean’s eyes cracked open to take in the sacrilege above him. An angel clutching to his flesh like it could save him from himself, from each profane twitch and jerk of his sweaty body. Sharp, borrowed fingers stabbed seeds of pain into his ribs to later bloom as bruises, and Dean knew from experience they’d take weeks to fade. He didn’t care.

Castiel didn’t either, at least beyond holding his strength in check just enough to avoid crushing bones or deafening him permanently.

Falling so blissfully.

For this spiraling heat and eruption of pleasure?

The desperate, driving need, always slow in building and gone too fast?

For him?

If Dean wasn’t careful, he’d fall too. And he wouldn’t land anywhere as soft as earth. He’d land somewhere between violent kisses - like shards of glass that drew yet more blood - and the defeat of numb, exhausted sleep. Next to a disappearing lover that wanted to stay but struggled to be there in the first place.

One would think he’d want it that way. No smothering, no strings.

Of course, there were always strings. And Castiel came complete with hooks too, drawing Dean in with every press of hands, every exploration. Every innocence freely given and long gone – like now. Jerking his hips desperately and inelegantly, taking everything Dean had, everything he gave. His open mouth, meant only for speaking the word of God, panted hot air across his collarbone in moist huffs. An angel’s tongue, merely a tool in spreading the word of Heaven, lapped against Dean’s neck, tasting and drinking the sweat.

Dean liked to tell himself it was out of his control. He had no choice. He couldn’t help being drawn into this madness. Castiel was just too much, magnetic and inescapable.

Dean liked to tell himself a lot of things. Sometimes, in spite of himself, he even believed them.

He cracked a little more with each lie.

The angel above him - body claiming, marking, loving him with bites, and ruts and thrusts - was a _**gift.**_ But it was a gift that threatened to explode in his hands. Sometimes Dean admitted to himself that he was the one who’d lit the fuse. Mostly, he admitted nothing. Happy to continue shattering with each obscenity he fed into angelic ears. And breaking more with each shiver he stole from a being so barely contained in flesh that his joy could literally kill his lover.

The ground could never quake enough merely at the blasphemy of Castiel’s feelings, let alone his actions. Of the accusing shatter of glass behind a sudden growl; the fizzling street light and blown neon sign that followed a climax never meant to be experienced. A thin line of blood ran from Dean’s nose, but he felt every pulse and twitch; felt as the hot liquid emptied deep inside him, the sensation foreign and uncomfortable.

The room seemed to spin on it’s axis, and Dean was left unsatisfied, desperate and wanting. He lie there, suddenly empty and leaking the slick evidence of Castiel’s release on to the sheets. The body above him was still, almost crushing the air from Dean’s lungs as the angel tried to refill his own. Air he’d forgotten he didn’t need. The sweaty and sated body was easy to mistake for just any other man, any other human - sinful and base. Just the way those with supposed purity and the illusion of superiority expected them to be.

Blue eyes opened slow and languid, their haze clearing in increments. Castiel muttered an inhuman word meant for neither of them into Dean’s hair when he shifted and felt him still needing.

Like chosen penance, an angel sank to his knees and wrote promises on imperfect human skin with his tongue. Snaking up his wrists to suck on each finger, he engraved them into every line on Dean’s palms. He scraped teeth across a soft, vulnerable belly and mouthed tacky lips along a hard, prominent hip. Castiel turned him and pressed closer to tongue wet oaths down his spine, bone by bone. Unsaid words tinged with a touch of the innocence they both wanted to believe he still possessed. Then an angel held him apart, as though he hadn’t already broken, and lowered to sweep his tongue over sore and stretched muscles in a place far too intimate for words. He licked deep and desperate, like he could dip into Dean’s life and clean up the mess he’d made there too.

Whines, begging at the same time they protested, cracked through the room loud but mostly unheard. Dean’s hands slipped on sweat that shouldn’t exist, slid through the dark hair Castiel didn’t own and yanked hard, violently clenching his legs around the angel’s head. His hips bucked high off the bed, yelling something incoherent but so loud it scraped his throat raw. The sound was dull and muted, though, filtering through the blood slowly clotting in his ear canals and caking dry down his neck.

A shout – scream - that would never compete with even the quietest sounds of the unbreakable angel between his thighs. Who now rose to press swollen, wet lips to his in a kiss that spoke everything.

Pressed together covered in sweat and seed and blood, Dean had no energy or sense to care that he’d taught an angel to be selfish. To want like he did. Castiel had raised Dean only to let the man pull him down.

He’d let an angel claim his soul, take his body, and Dean wanted every second of it. Every single sound, touch, look. Every kiss. Every drop of blood it cost him. Even the surprisingly gentle embraces, habitually denied in the light of day.

Every square inch of Castiel. This lover he would never see.

This creature he’d never even glimpsed.

  



End file.
